RL Fic Exchange: Endless Summer
by R.S.Lynn
Summary: He was the definition of what I didn't want... or what my mother didn't want... but I couldn't help or explain the inexplicit attraction we had for each other. Set pre-season five, another way that Rory and Logan could have met. Rory's POV. Eventual M


**For: **Kenzie Jean**  
Title: **Endless Summer  
**Author:** R. S. Lynn  
**Rating:** M**  
Prompt:** Think of the most fun and most creative fanfiction you can think of. It HAS to be original. You can't steal your idea from something else on tv or a book. think it up yourself. I want it to be centered around Rory and Logan and smut is acceptable if you want to put it in. Characters i don't want to see: DEAN (Never) Marty. Any other character is acceptable. Especially Finn and Colin. Anything is fine with me, just make it creative.

**Summary: **After the season four finale, Rory goes to Europe with her grandmother as planned, but meets someone in her future in another way—Rory's POV and AU.

**Word Count:** 3,433

**Author's Note: So, this story is for the first annual Rory/Logan Christmas Fic Exchange and as noted above, it takes place at the beginning of season five when Rory and her grandmother are traveling Europe. This story starts mid-summer (after Rory starts getting tired of her grandmother's company) and takes place in a small Italian town, which I've decided she and her grandmother visited before going to Rome. I chose a summer fic, because I didn't want to write a Christmas story, so I decided the opposite fit well. Anyway, I'll have more to post later. This is just the first of many chapters. I know this exchange implied that it had to be finished by this date, but I didn't have time. Anyway, here's the first installment, enjoy. :) **

**Endless Summer**

**I Saw You Across the Room**

"_**I saw you across the room. I saw you across a river so blue. What was I to do?" **_

Sometimes, I found it infinitely impossible to get my mother's voice out of my head. Even when I was mad at her and not specific words, just her opinions, mostly. Sometimes I'd even conjure up an entire conversation with her in my brain, thinking up exactly what she'd say or what argument she'd formulate in a particular situation. The voice would appear in the most trivial of instances like when I was shopping for a new pair of jeans or it would pop up in more life-altering decisions mostly as a sense of doubt. It wasn't like a form of conscience, I was all too aware that my mother was no archetype for completely wholesome behavior, it was more like a need to act in a way that my mother would approve of, what would make her proud.

Sometimes, I completely misinterpreted the voice that I thought I knew so well and the night the Inn opened was one of those times. _"…well, aren't you glad that it happened with someone who's good and really loves me?"_ I physically cringed at the recollection of my own words as they seeped into my memory months later. That particular naïve sentence embarrassed me the most out of our entire argument that night as it was tinged with stupid predictions of my mother's perception on my behavior. _"…Aren't you glad…?"_

Of course she wasn't glad, hindsight made me see my mistake perfectly and I felt ignorant for not seeing it before. My mother would never be pleased to see her only, perfect daughter lose her virginity to her married ex-boyfriend in her childhood bed. The childhood bed under my childhood home that my mother had tried to use as a shelter from anything perverse or wrong for so many years and I had managed to completely screw that up in a single night of over-whelming loneliness.

Loneliness was a giant factor in my decision-making that night. I had acted with the intention of alleviating my own self-doubt, of elevating my own self-esteem that had plummeted greatly during my first year at Yale. For the first time since I was sixteen, I found myself not in a relationship, not sought after by anyone of the opposite sex, and as much as I felt foolish and vain to admit it, it affected me and my own feelings of self worth. I knew these thoughts were shallow, backwards, and co-dependent, but I couldn't help how I felt. My shame for my feelings was partially why I didn't share any of this with my mother. I knew that she, the single mother who had achieved so many things without having a man, without necessarily having someone there to confirm she was pretty or desirable, would not appreciate my longing for that kind of affirmation.

This past year, men-wise, had been taxing—first Dean getting married, then Jess leaving, Marty's lack of interest, rejection from laundry room guy, and the horrendous date with the guy my grandmother set me up with. It made me wonder what had changed since high school, what had made me less of a fixation for guys? Paris had joked once—noticing my obvious lack of dates—that it was because I had chopped my long hair off and it reminded boys of a twelve year old. Though it had been a joke, I took it to heart more than I should have, and I started to grow it out again. Jeez, even Paris had had _two_ boyfriends at once at one point during the year.

So, to get out of my pathetic, singles depression, I called Dean.

Since Spring Break, I had known how I wanted Dean to be in my life, I knew what I wanted him to do. It had been selfish and I hadn't cared how it affected his life, because I knew that he wouldn't care either, because he loved me.

"…_someone who's good and really loves me?"_

Someone who loved me, not the other way around, because I only really cared if I was loved. That was one of the revelations I had come across during my summer of thinking, during my punishment—I had never really loved anyone before, they had only, supposedly, loved me. Jess, Dean, I hadn't loved either of them. I realized this about Dean when Jess had come in the picture, and I realized this about Jess when he had reappeared in my life this past winter and spring.

He had said he loved me, he had asked me to run away with him, and I had said no. Real love shouldn't have made me think about the repercussions of throwing everything away the way I had that night. I even doubted, in that moment, whether or not Jess loved me, either. I didn't think so. Jess wanted things he couldn't have and when he finally had them, he lost interest. If he had really loved me, he wouldn't have left me in the first place, he wouldn't have asked me to leave everything that I loved and worked for. He was selfish, and I was selfish, and that's why we hadn't worked.

Dean, on the other hand, had never asked me to give up anything. I had been the one to run away from him, to push him away, and that's because I wasn't as interested in him like he was in me. I had a feeling that Dean would always be pinning for me and I wasn't sure if it was because I was the love of his life or if he was just stupid and simple—unable to grasp the concept of replacement. Hurting Dean hadn't mattered to me that night in my bedroom, and it certainly hadn't mattered to me when I had agreed to spend the summer in Europe. I knew that as soon as I had accepted that offer—though it was initially forced on me—that it was over between Dean and me. However, I was still being selfish, because I hadn't let him know that, yet. I still wanted to be Dean's Daisy Buchanan, though I knew he'd never have the initiative or depth to become my Jay Gatsby.

All of those revelations had brought me to this moment here in a little town in Northern Italy, more self-loathing, longer hair, and still thinking about my mother's thoughts even though I was still furious with her. I was mad at her for being so judgmental, for being so right, and for shipping me off to Europe as soon as she couldn't handle me. I remember rolling my eyes at Jess when he had complained about his mother sending him to Stars Hollow when she couldn't keep him out of trouble anymore, I remember thinking in my head about how it was for his own good and he'd see it later in life. But now, being on the other side of the spectrum, I was just as angry and angst-ridden as he had been. I had thought I had skipped the whole teenage rebellion thing, the disdain for ones parent, but it turned out I had just been a late bloomer.

So, even though I know my mother had been right, I wasn't going to call her out of sheer stubbornness, because this wasn't how she was supposed to teach me lessons. This was the Emily Gilmore School of punishment and my mother adoption of this doctrine was hypocritical after all those years of complaining about her upbringing. So, _my_ lack of submission was my way of punishing _her_. It would teach her to not to change the rules in the middle of the game.

However, I did miss her… especially since I was having a horrible time this entire summer, taking the Emily Gilmore tour of Europe, which basically entailed not actually experiencing Europe or its inhabitants. I had found that my grandmother ran into a group of friends in virtually every city and town we had stopped in all summer, prompting her to drag me along to various shindigs and functions that required dressing to the nines almost every night. We did get to see historical things, but it hadn't been the same as the Europe I had experienced along side my mother the summer before. Instead of lugging giant backpacks from hostel to hostel, we stayed in ritzy hotels where I wasn't even allowed to touch my luggage.

Tonight, or, rather, this morning since the sun was beginning to crown over the various Alps Mountains in the shadowed distance, I had managed to escape from one of the aforementioned parties without my grandmother's knowledge. Certainly, she had noticed now, hours after the fact, but I didn't have to worry about that until I decided to return to our Versailles-esque hotel suite. I had enjoyed my late night slash early morning stroll through the strange little town where everyone else was sleeping. Sure, I was dressed inappropriately for such a walk in a black cocktail dress, sling-back heels, and too much eye makeup, but it was infinitely less painful than the stuffy atmosphere enveloped in the faux Italian villa almost a mile away.

Currently, I was walking towards the end of a deserted, wooden fisherman's dock to sit down and eat the two chocolate croissants I'd bought from a baker who'd just been setting up shop for the day. I preferred French pastries to Italian even though this particular pain au chocolat was way waxier than the authentic ones. I walked gingerly—trying to avoid spearing my heel through one of the cracks between the boards. I would have taken my shoes off completely if I weren't completely paranoid about receiving a gigantic splinter from sliding my feet against the decaying planks.

As I reached my desired spot, I braced myself against one of the moldy poles, so I could sit down, dangling my feet over the side as I picked at my breakfast. I was running on automatic thoughts as I watched a ritzy yacht slowly pull into the harbor and cried. I wasn't crying because I had hit the peek of my sadness about the situation I had created, I wasn't crying because I was feeling sorry for myself or even because I hated myself. It was because I was utilizing the minimal time I had for myself—the only time I'd probably have for awhile after I wandered back to a distraught Emily Gilmore. It just wasn't very polite to cry in front of your grandmother especially pertaining a free

trip to Europe. It was only fitting that my destructive quest to end my loneliness would leave me lonelier than before.

***

My prediction to my grandmother's response was dead on, she was beyond livid that her granddaughter had wandered off unaccompanied through the treacherous streets of the vacationer drenched Italian small town. She rambled on about how most of the time I was good and was practically a poster child for good breeding, but every once in a while, I'd live up to my mother's name.

Any other time, this comparison would make me proud and I sneak in a small smile to myself while she continued to exercise her vocal chords—something I'm sure she thought she had retired once my mother had vanished from their household. But this time, I couldn't help but scowl and mentally reason that my mother would have never done something so self-reflective. She, especially in her early years, had a penchant for being a rebel without a cause, doing things to only enrage and mar her mother. She wasn't the thinking type. Subsequently, my grandma decided that she needed to further reel in her chokehold she had on me during the remainder of our trip.

This meant that my sparse afternoons alone attributed to my grandma's uncountable invitations to elitists' second homes for brunch or lunch would be abolished. I would now be required to automatically accompany her to every function, soiree, or small get together that came our way all because I skipped out early on one of them. Surely, the punishment didn't fit the crime, but there was no arguing with Emily Gilmore on the matter. So, I readied myself by dressing in a flowered sundress—picked out by Emily—and a light sweater. I took an executive decision to forgo the pearls. And my Grandma and I were ready to embark on a brunch at one of her 'dear old friends'' summer homes, which would be strikingly similar to the cocktail party the night before—different places, different people, different attire and food, but undoubtedly related conversations.

Before we were let into their home, my grandmother looked at me from the corner of her eye, already adopting her compulsory strained smile. "Behave, these are important people," she warned as if her next plan in action for eliminating my freedom included making me sleep in the same bed as her. I said nothing, rolled my eyes to myself, and crossed my arms in front of me. Emily rang the doorbell, looked over at me and scowled. She came up behind me and yanked on my shoulders. "Stand up straight," she commanded, her assault on my body causing it to involuntarily unbend and align my arms by my sides. Emily nodded in appreciation and returned to her spot as the resident maid let us in.

Looking around at the inside of their lavish house, I realized that these people weren't like my grandmother's other friends. Walking into this house was like walking into Caesar's palace—the gold plated ceilings and marble floors oozed self-worth and I almost felt guilty for walking on it with heels… before I remembered that most people who walked on it probably wore heels, too.

We were lead out to the veranda in the backyard where at an extravagant, wrought-iron table complete with a gigantic parasol umbrella—to ensure that the meal outside would only barely pass as outside—sat three other people. The one older woman was chattering incessantly to a half-listening younger one while another maid was pouring both of them cups of tea. They appeared to be mother and daughter, the latter being around twenty five, maybe older, the former being around her late forties or early fifties. It was hard to tell due to the fact that her face didn't seem to move much. Next to them, seemingly not part of the conversation was a guy around my age, maybe a few years older. He had blond hair, as did his other table companions, that was messy on purpose and he was staring at me curiously—or, at my grandmother and me since we had both intruded on their seemingly private meal together.

The chatty woman followed her son's gaze, smiled a little too brightly at our arrival, and she stood up with her arms outstretched. "Emily," she cooed lovingly as she slightly embraced my grandmother and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

"Shira," my grandmother replied, matching the woman's gooey tone, and briefly squeezing her hand, "it's been too long." My grandmother sat in one of the two empty chairs and pulled me down in the one next to her and next to the staring kid, who, consequently, was still staring at me, singular fixation. "This is my granddaughter Rory," she introduced me, smiling like she hadn't just blown up at me this morning.

"Pleasure to meet you, Rory," Shira said, cocking her head to the side like she herself was as robotic as her conversational skills. "I'm Shira Huntzberger and these are my children Honor and Logan. Honor is working at an art gallery in New York after graduating from Swarthmore and Logan here is just returning to Yale for his junior year after taking some time off." She patted her son roughly on his thigh, which effectively made him divert his attention from my face. Naturally, no one at the table addressed this semi-violent interaction. "Isn't that right, Logan?" It might have been just me, but I detected a slightly bitter tone to Shira's words.

"Yeah, I am," Logan gave as a delayed response.

There was an awkward silence at Logan's less than enthusiastic affirmation to his mother's words, but it was soon followed by my grandmother clearing her throat. "Rory's going into her second year of Yale now, she loves it."

"Do you?" Shira asked in obviously false interest, I began wondering how she was getting away with her translucent facade. "What's your major?"

"Um," the maid started pouring tea inside my cup and I was left to stare at the foul liquid in distain—always tea, never coffee with these rich people, "journalism."

"Oh yeah," Honor said, leaning forward to look at her mother, "remember, Emily has mentioned that before."

"Did she? I don't recall. Anyway, it's not important," Shira continued, brushing off my entire being as 'unimportant,' "Emily, you must try some of this raspberry brie en croute, it's divine."

And the rest of the brunch went just like that—except for the ending.

Three hours later, my grandmother and Shira's faux laughs echoed under the confines of the umbrella as they reminisced about the events at some dinner years ago. Once their cackles dispersed, my grandmother braced her hands against the armrests of her chair, preparing to hoist herself up. I perked up at her telltale gesture—having sensed through the past weeks that it meant it was time to leave. "Well, this has been lovely, Shira."

Shira nodded in her direction. "It was, I hope to see you again before you take your lovely granddaughter off to Rome in a few days, oh!" She paused and reached into her purse, which appeared seemingly from nowhere, and pulled out a pair of reading glasses and a Blackberry. "Lets see here…" She proceeded to hit a bunch of buttons, which proceeded to make a bunch of sound, and then she sighed loudly. "I can't work this thing," she relented, glancing over to her daughter for aid.

Honor rolled her eyes and snatched the device from her mother's hands. After a few seconds, she handed it back. "It's in three nights," she said simply.

"Oh," Shira said, smiling back at my grandmother, "are you gone, then?"

"No," my grandma said through gritted teeth, "we'll still be here, hopefully."

"Well," Shira leaned in to speak to my grandmother specifically, "we're holding a little function for a few people who are in town and who are interested in…"

That's all I heard as I tuned them out, again, and began to blankly stare at my empty plate, which had once been full of a plethora of appetizers in miniscule servings. However, I looked to my right after the feeling of someone looking at me swept over me again. It was that guy, again. I glared at him this time as he had been blatantly staring at me during various occasions throughout the entire meal. He didn't look away, however, and simply furrowed his brow and survey my face again with his eyes. I averted my gaze, determined to ignore the persistent face-enthusiast.

"Wouldn't that be nice, Rory?" my grandmother asked me, snapping me out of

my resolution.

"Huh?" I inquired, putting my Yale education to good use.

I could the Botox-ed muscles in my grandmother's face trying to illustrate irritation. "Wouldn't it be nice if Logan here showed you around town this afternoon?"

"Um," I stalled, trying to think of a good excuse to get away from staring boy without further infuriating my grandmother. The boy had barely said five words the entire meal and I didn't think an afternoon about town with him would be something even remotely enjoyable.

However, my grandma was beginning to preempt my refusal and interrupted my hesitation. "Unless you'd like to spend some time shopping with me, instead?" My grandmother quirked her eyebrow, knowingly.

She was trying to pester me into accepting, making me realize that if I said no, my evening with her would be more torturous than usual. Also, it made me realize that it was likely easier to give staring man the slip than the omniscient Emily Gilmore. I envisioned an afternoon—not just a dark, secluded morning—doing things I actually wanted to do, specifically alone. "I'd love to," I said, sweetly, mimicking the false sweetness in my voice that Shira had been vomiting all brunch.

**Author's Note: Please review! There's still more to come.**


End file.
